



^^ % 



I 




Photo, Saunders, Buffalo, 1905 



Donegal Memories and 
Other Poems 

BY 

James Nicoll Johnston 



^^ 



'Those recollected hours that have the charm 
Ot visionary things, those lovely forms 
And sweet sensations that throw back our life. 
And almost make remotest infancy 
A visible scene, on which the sun Is shining." 



PRIVATELY PRINTED 

THE MATTHEWS-NORTHRUP WORKS 

BUFFALO, NEW YORK 

MCMX 






GLEN IRIS PICTURES BY PERMISSION 
OF HONORABLE WILLIAM PRYOR 
LETCHWORTH, LL. D. UNLESS OTHER- 
WISE ACKNOWLEDGED, THE OTHER 
PICTURES ARE FROM PHOTOGRAPHS 
BYJOHN A. BLACKjM. A. (tHE KNIGHT 
OF blarney), BUFFALO, NEW YORK 



Copyright, 1910, by James Nicoll Johnston 



^CI.A25:i7J2 



In Loving Memory 

These Poems are Inscribed 

TO MY Mother 

Jean Nicoll Johnston 



1 



CONTENTS 

Page 

ABRAHAM LINCOLN. 11 

THE GUARD ON THE RHINE. 12. 13 

AN ARTISTIC ALCHEMIST, 13 

IN VAIN. O MAN, CONTENDING. 14 

THANKSGIVING HYMN, 15 

CHRISTMAS, 16 

NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1909, 17. 18 

A FRIEND'S ADVICE, 19 

GERRIT SMITH, 20 

SAINT AUGUSTINE. 21 

LARS GUSTAVE SELLSTEDT, 22 

MELTON M. MODISETTE. 25 

IMPROMPTUS, 26 
TO ANY ONE INTENDING TO PUBLISH A BOOK. 26 
INSCRIPTION ON THE FLY LEAF OF MRS. J. C. 

L.'S POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO. 26 

TO MRS. C. B. S., 27 

TO MRS. J. J. A., 27 

ON RECEIVING A LETTER-BALANCE FROM MR. 

AND MRS. F. M. H., 27 

HALCYON, 28 

TO J. V. W. ANNAN. 29 

MATERIAL PROSPERITY, 29 

AT THE GRAVE OF MARY E. LORD. 30, 31 

ROBERT KEATING, 32, 33 

EICHE-RUHE, 34 

TO A VOYAGER BOUND FOR THE ORIENT. 35. 36 

TO RABBI FALK AND MRS. FALK ON THEIR 

SILVER WEDDING ANNIVERSARY. 37 

A GOOD MAN'S BIRTHDAY, 38 

GLEN IRIS POEMS, 39-65 

GLEN IRIS, 41. 42 

A MEMORY. 45. 46 

THERE'S A BEAUTIFUL SPOT BY THE WILD 

GENESEE. 49. 50 

REST. 53, 54 

THE HAPPY VALLEY. 67. 58 

A PICTURE. 61 

TO M. F.. 62 

TO GLEN IRIS, 65 

DONEGAL MEMORIES. 67-114 

LONGINGS. 71 

MEMORIES, 72. 73 

EXTRACT FROM AN ADDRESS. 74 



Page 

GARTAN, 77 

OREESLOUGH FAIR, 78. 81, 82 

THE SAND EEL STRAND, 85 

FAME, 86, 87 

THE WRECK OF THE FRIGATE SALDANA, 91 

ROBERT BERMINGHAM CLEMENTS, 92 

A BOY'S FISHING, 95 

LITTLE NORA, 95 

SHAN, 96 
TO HON. WILLIAM PRYOR LETCHWORTH, LL.D.,99, 100 

THE CAOINE, 103 

THOUGHTS ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF 

THE LAST STEWART OF ARDS, 104, 109 

THE BRIDGE OF CLOON, HO, 113 

THE WOODS OF ARDS, 114 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

PORTRAIT OF AUTHOR, 

ALBRIGHT ART GALLERY, 

VIEW FROM PROSPECT FARM, 

INSPIRATION POINT, 

MIDDLE FALLS, 

WEST LAWN, 

ROCK-BOUND BATTLEMENTS, 

DEH-GA-YA-SOH, 

HOUSE AND GROUNDS AT GLEN IRIS, 

GLENVEAGH CASTLE AND GROUNDS, 

COLUMBKILLE CHURCH, GARTAN, 

LOWER CREESLOUGH, 

COCKLE STRAND, CARRIG ART — ARDS WOODS IN 

THE DISTANCE, 
MAP OF DONEGAL, 

NORTH SIDE LOUGH SWILLY, LAGAN BEYOND, 
MYROE, TOLLY HILL, DUNES NEAR TRAMORE 

STRAND, 
NEAR ST. JOHN'S POINT, NORTHWEST DONEGAL, 
DONEGAL HILLS BY MOONLIGHT, 
DOE CASTLE, ARDS ESTATE, SHEEP HAVEN BAY, 
"HERE WHERE NIAGARA'S WATERS FLOW," 
BRIDGE OF CLOON, 
WOODS OF ARDS, FRONT STRAND, SHEEP HAVEN 

BAY, 
MUCKISH FROM THE SOUTH, 



Page 

2 

23 

40 



94 
98 
102 
105 
107 
111 

115 
117 



FOREWORD 

HAVING known the earlier poems in this collection almost 
as long and as affectionately as I have known the writer 
of them, I have been wishing for forty years to see them 
between the covers of a book, with additions. Unfortunately, 
Mr. Johnston's early and recent verse were separated by 
a long interval of years, in which little came from his 
pen. This, I can testify, was not because of any failure of 
the spring of poetry in his nature, but because he spent too 
much of himself in unsparing services of business and friend- 
ship, with a consequent wearing down of the good health and 
stamina that he had brought from Donegal. 

Throughout those years of the weary silence of his own 
Muse, however, he was alertly a listener to all the voices of 
song around him: and it was then, in collaboration with his 
mother, of nature like his own, that he gathered the materials 
which prepared him to become, not long ago, the historian of 
poetry in Buffalo. It can be said safely that no other city in 
this country has anything of local anthology to compare, in 
completeness and historical value, with the fine volume edited 
and published by Mr. Johnston in 1904, representative of 
" The Poets and Poetry of Buffalo " ; nor is there another, of 
equal rank and population, that could make a prouder showing 
of literary product than that volume sets forth. The prepara- 
tion of it was a labor of love, moved by the high civic spirit 
which estimates a community by the workings of mind it can 
show, rather than by the product of its factories or the statistics 
of its trade. 

Time had now brought my friend to that backward turn of 
memory which slips one into persisting thoughts of his youth, 
giving him a happy recall of days when mere living was 
poetry, and the prose-making of manhood in sordid labors was 
not begun. This quickened into a new activity the old instinct 



of rhythmic expression that was born in him, and it gave us 
the " Donegal Memories," which have sung their simple sweet 
feeling into the hearts of many more than their Irish readers. 
If I care a little more for the elder verse of the eighteen-six- 
ties-and-seventies, it is because of the habit of a long affection, 
no doubt, and not many will assent to such a preference. 
The poems of the two periods are interesting in their differences, 
as well as delightful in themselves, and they gain by being 
bound together. 

Another Buffalo poet once put his feeling toward and his 
thought of the writer of this book into the following sonnet: 

"TO AN OLD FRIEND" 

A kindred taste in books — the better kind, 
A love for humor — of an honest vein, 
A turn for talk, for verses, and a strain 
Of Scottish blood ; last but not least to mind 
A joy in vain debate ; all these combined 
Have made us young together — spite the score 
Of years you rank me, and the little more 
Of gray above a brow no deeper lined. 

But to keep young together — how solve this ? 
Who reads the riddle never need grow old ; 
To leave the heart unlocked, that naught in vain, 
So it be worthy — yes, though it be pain — 
Shall seek the door ; old friend, I cannot miss 
The simple answer, by your own life told ! 

I am permitted to borrow from Robert Cameron Rogers 
this fine tribute "To an Old Friend," which gives adequate 
expression to what I would put into words of my own if I 
could. 

J. N. LARNED 



ABRAHAM LINCOLN 

Lying in State in Buffalo, April 27, 1865. 

Bear him to his Western home, 

Whence he came four years ago ; 

Not beneath some Eastern dome, 

But where Freedom's airs may come, 

Where the prairie grasses grow, 

To the friends who loved him so. 

Take him to his quiet rest ; 

Toll the bell and fire the gun ; 
He who served his country best, 
He whom millions loved and bless'd, 

Now has fame immortal won ; 

Rack of brain and heart is done. 

Shed thy tears, O, April rain ! 

O'er the tomb wherein he sleeps ! 

Wash away the bloody stain ! 

Drape the skies in grief, O, rain ! 
Lo ! a nation with thee weeps. 
Grieving o'er her martyred slain. 

To the people whence he came. 
Bear him gently back again. 

Greater his than victor's fame, — 

His is now a sainted name ; 
Never ruler had such gain— 
Never people had such pain. 



Mr. James Nicoll Johnston's poem on Lincoln, printed above, was published at the 
head of the editorial columns of the Buffalo Express, April 27, 1865, anonymously. 
It was afterwards republished, anonymously, in " Poetical Tributes to the Memory of 
Abraham Lincoln, J. B. Lippincott & Co." The author's identity was established by 
its appearance in Mr. Johnston's " Poets and Poetry of Buffalo." 



[ 11 ] 



THE GUARD ON THE RHINE 

Translated from the Gennan, June, 1870. 

There swells a cry as thunder-crash, 
As clash of swords and breakers dash — 
On to the Rhine, to the German Rhine! 
Who will protect the river line ? 
Dear Fatherland, let peace be thine ; 
Brave hearts and true defend the Rhine ! 

To millions swiftly came the cry, 
And lightnings flashed from every eye ; 
Our youth so good and brave will stand 
And guard thee — Holy Border Land! 
Dear Fatherland, let peace be thine, 
Brave hearts and true defend the Rhine ! 

And though my heart should beat no more. 

No foreign foe shall hold thy shore, — 

Rich as in water is thy flood, 

Is Germany in hero blood. 

Dear Fatherland, let peace be thine ; 

Brave hearts and true defend the Rhine ! 

Up looked he to the heaven's blue. 
Where hero-dead our actions view ; 
He swore and proudly sought the strife — 
"The Rhine is German as my life." 
Dear Fatherland, let peace be thine ; 
Brave hearts and true defend the Rhine ! 



[ 12 1 



While yet one drop of blood throbs warm, 
To wield the sword remains one arm, 
To hold the rifle yet one hand, 
No foeman steps upon thy strand. 
Loved Fatherland, let peace be thine ; 
Brave hearts and true defend the Rhine ! 

The oath resounds, the billows run ; 
Our colors flutter in the sun ; 
On to the Rhine, to the German Rhine ! 
We will protect thee, river mine ! 
Dear Fatherland, let peace be thine ; 
Brave hearts and true defend the Rhine ! 



AN ARTISTIC ALCHEMIST 

Inscription to M. R. T., in her copy of Donegal Memories. 

The emblem of Erin so vaunted 

Was just the design that she wanted; 

So with one of her gifts manifold. 
And being all the time a book-lover, 

She changed the green shamrocks to gold; 
You can see them outside on the cover. 




[ 13 ] 



IN VAIN, O MAN, CONTENDING 

From the German 

In vain, O man, contending, 

Thou mak'st but care and pain ; 
A life repose intending 

Thou never canst attain. 
O'ertakes the king and peasant 

Alike, death's fearful smart ; 
Be silent for the present, 

And patient, O my heart ! 

Not ever bloom the roses, — 

A storm and they must fall ; 
Yet mother-earth discloses 

A grave prepared for all. 
The day that has no morrow — 

When that last day appears, 
Then ended is all sorrow 

And wept are all our tears. 

From woes no man can number 

We're borne at last to rest ; 
Close-to, in endless slumber, 

Are weary eyelids pressed ; 
Death's arrow is unfailing 

To quiet every smart ; 
A few more days of ailing, — 

Be patient, O my heart ! 



[ 14 ] 



THANKSGIVING HYMN 

Beneficent Father, 

Before Thee to-day, 
Together we gather. 

Our homage to pay, 
For bounties that flowed, 

The goodness, the cheer — 
All Thy hands have bestowed 

Through the outgoing year. 

The fields we have cultured. 

Thy sunshine and rain 
Have nourished and nurtured 

To ripeness again. 
No blight has us saddened, 

No dark angel's wing — 
Our hearts have been gladdened 

By what Thou didst bring. 

For our flocks still increasing, 

Our harvest's rich store. 
Thy kindness unceasing 

To us evermore, — 
Our land blessed of heaven, 

With rest from the sword, — 
For all Thou hast given, 

We thank Thee, O Lord. 



[ 15 ] 



CHRISTMAS 

Snow, wrap the earth in robes of white ; 

Ye stars heaven's vault adorning, 
Shed o'er the world a brighter light 

On this dear Christmas morning. 
Ye lofty bells, your anthems play 

Fi'om every towering steeple ; 
Glad tidings of great joy this day, 

Have come to all the people. 

From eastern lands of old renown, 

By western prairies swelling, 
In many an overcrowded town. 

In lone and scattered dwelling. 
Goes up the glad triumphant strain 

To him who ruleth o'er us, — 
Men giving back a loud refrain 

Unto the angels' chorus. 

To thee, dear Bethlehem, to-day, 

Our willing hearts are turning. 
Yet by the manger still we stay, 

While faith and love are burning. 
That manger is a sacred shrine 

Where pulse and heart beat faster ; 
Its babe is now our King divine, 

Redeemer, Lord, and Master. 



[ 16 1 



NEW YEAR'S DAY, 1909 

The sad Old Year has passed away, 

And the glad New Year is here to-day, — 

Come with the lessons we soon must learn. 
Come with the truths we would fain discern : 

A mission for all, deeds to be wrought ; 
Duties that cannot be sold or bought. 

The time has gone for mere speech and pen. 
The Nation's great need is for earnest men. 

We turn. Old Year, our questioning thought. 
And read the teachings thy changes brought : 

Some hearts have drunk from a living spring, 
And life with them was a gladsome thing ; 

And some have felt the keen pangs that rise 
As they looked in vain for loving eyes. 

Through endless strivings of hope and fear, 
We watched thy passage, thou sad Old Year ! 

Counting thy days we turn with pride 
To scan the page of thy sunny side ; 

Through the early mists we felt our ways 
Into the light of thy later days ; — 

Harvests gathered of untold wealth, 
Sweet summer breezes, bringing us health ; 

Commerce speeding her deep-laden fleets, 
The hum of traffic in all our streets ; 

[ 17 ] 



And better still that the Nation's thought 
Is true to the teachings the fathers taught ; 

And the treasured flame of Freedom's fire, 
Burns now in the son as once in the sire. 

O, glad New Year! we longingly look 
Into thy dim, mysterious book. 

Our hopes are strong as with eager eyes 
We would read the Nation's destinies ; 

For promised gifts each watcher stands 
And holds to thee his outstretched hands. 

Bring us the truth, unheeding the cost, 
Though all the baubles of life be lost. 

The faith and patience that counts no price 
As worthy of liberty's sacrifice. 

O, year of years, in every land 

Earth's mourning, hapless suffierers stand, 

Looking afar with straining eyes 
To hail the bow in the western skies. 

We labor and pray and still endure, — 
God's time seems slow, but the end is sure. 

Break off, O, Year ! all fetters that bind. 
Spread the knowledge that lifts mankind. 

Bring us the tidings we long to hear. 
And be all thy days a glad New Year. 



[ 18 ] 



A FRIEND'S ADVICE 

Poor foolish one, who vainly sits, 

Still hatching eggs of sorrow. 
Who sees the fancies of to-day 

Become great facts to-morrow, 
Why grieve ye for the changing heart ? 

Or mourn for friendship's crosses ? 
The man who acts the wiser part. 

Will laugh still at his losses. 

Have boon companions from you gone ? 

You're freer from temptation ; 
Has lady-love to rival flown ? — 

A blessed dispensation. 
More precious friends you yet shall find, 

A damsel that is truer ; 
Pleasure awaits the cheerful mind, 

Success the faithful wooer. 

Then throw aside your robes of grief. 

And let your life be jolly; 
To every wrinkle give a reef, 

To fools give melancholy. 
Thank Heaven for what it has bestowed; 

Cease, cease, this useless pining ! 
And take the independent road. 

Where light is always shining. 



[ 19 1 



GERRIT SMITH 

Sonnet written for Mrs. Louise Willard Miller. 

Few were the fighters when our hero came 
And bravely led the hosts in freedom's van ; 
A patriot he, who feared no tyrant's ban, 

Fought a good fight against our country's shame. 

Nor ever flinched for hostile hate or blame. 

With lives like his — "the noble men who can," 
We've read his story and we love the man ; 

Seek the immortals and you'll find his name. 

You of his line have other work to do ; 

Though slavery's dead, freedom is far away. 
The weak still suffer from the heartless strong 
Now, while the way of duty you pursue, 
Look ever upward and believing pray 

For right triumphant and the end of wrong. 




[ 20 ] 



SAINT AUGUSTINE 

I silently sit by the Spanish Fort, 

And watch the ensign fall ; 
The white-sailed boats are seeking the port, 

Or lie by the low sea-wall. 

And darkness spreads o'er the eastern sky, 
Save the " flash-light" by the shore ; 

I hear the Matanzas ebbing by, 
And the ocean's distant roar. 

Stilled is the beat of the sea-bird's wings. 
And borne on the evening breeze 

There com6s the calm that the twilight brings 
From gardens of tropical trees. 

And odors of sweetness fill the air, 
As the shadows fall on the deep ; 

And lost are time, and space, and care. 
And whether I wake or sleep. 

For thoughts are mine, which no one tells, — 
Of what life has brought to me ; 

They came from the old cathedral bells, 
And are gone on an endless sea. 




[ 21 



LARS GUSTAVE SELLSTEDT 

On his Ninetieth Birthday. 

At four score years most men retire, 

Their after-days show oft decline ; 

His mind still glows with olden fire, 

And does good work at eighty-nine. 

One thing there is his friends now want, 

That Osier see him and recant. 

To-day he's four score years and ten ; 

His life and labors we all know ; 
With story, brush, and vigorous pen 
He's added fame to Buffalo. 

One thing there is his friends all want, 
That Osier see him and recant. 

Of lives like his have poets sung — 

Whose aims to noble ideals tend ; 

At ninety years we find him young, 

All Buffalo proclaims him friend. 

One thing there is these friends now want. 
That Osier see him and recant. 




[ 22 ] 




ALBRIGHT ART GALLERY 



[ 23 ] 



MELTON M. MODISETTE 

No narrow creed his generous soul confined ; 
He loved his Maker and the works He planned, 
His country, and his duty's high command, 
The themes the wise in ancient records find, 
The joy-inspiring touch of mind with mind, 
And all things beautiful on sea and land. 
Teacher of truth he was, convincing, grand ; 
Then God so willed it and our friend grew blind. 

No weak complainings in his darkened hours ; 
Dear memories lived, and friends to him were eyes ; 
Lx)ve, music, converse, made all seasons bright ; 
From songs of birds and fragrance of sweet flowers, 
In thoughts that from deep introspection rise. 
And communings with God: — Lo, there was light! 




[ 25 ] 



IMPROMPTUS 

To Hon. W. P. Letchworth, on seeing his Book on the Insane frequently quoted 
and endorsed in a Hungarian book. 

You have an appetite for facts, 

Chapters and tables hard to frame ; 
Now, in a Magyar Book of Acts, 

The author glorifies your name. 

Soon far from classic Genesee, — 

In Yeddo, Pekin, or Bombay, 
When savants come to disagree, 

They'll ask — "And what does Letchworth say?" 



TO ANY ONE INTENDING TO PUBLISH 
A BOOK 

Have you written a book and wish to print it ; 

See there's money on hand and do not stint it ; 
Seek M-N Works — with good men to overlook, 

And then you'll be sure of a perfect book. 
Their part is what arts and crafts can do — 

Is the book a success ? That depends on you. 

INSCRIPTION ON THE FLY LEAF OF MRS. J. C. L.'S 
POETS AND POETRY OF BUFFALO. 

Our subjects are familiar things, 

Fancies and thoughts that come and go ; 

Each modest muse may stretch her wings, 
But finds her rest in Buffalo. 

We cultivate a fair estate, — 

No mighty gift of genius ours ; 
Others may boast possessions great, — 

We have a garden of sweet flowers. 

[ 26 ] 



TO MRS. C. B. S. 

With a copy of Samuel Lover's Anthology of Irish Verse. 

A birthday and an uplift; 

How fast time rushes ! 
Pray, take this book, a gift 
With heart-warm wishes. 
Old songs of Erin lie beneath the cover. 
By a Lover-Bard and for a music lover. 

TO MRS. J. J. A. 

With a small bill to buy a Christmas present for her little daughter. 

I have a fancy 

It would be pleasant 

To send a present 
To little Nancy. 

And so to end it, 

I ask her mother 

To take the bother ; 
Here's money, spend it. 

Buy a full moon. 

Or whatever you like ; 

A Raphael, Van Dyke, 
Or a silver spoon. 

ON RECEIVING A LETTER-BALANCE FROM 
MR. AND MRS. F. M. H. 

Dear friends, your gift to me to-day 

Will move me to live better ; 
Before, my words I tried to weigh; 

Now, I will weigh each letter. 

[ 27 ] 



HALCYON 

The home at Queenstown, Canada, of Mr. Richard K. Noye. 

Great locust trees that screen from passers by ; 

An orchard garden where the robins run ; 

Green bowers of rest secluded from the sun ; 
Two stately cedars grateful to the eye ; 
Above, in glory outlined 'gainst the sky, 

The monument a patriot-hero won — 

Beyond, wide landscapes fair as Avallon, — 
The mighty river, silent, flowing nigh. 
How good to live and muse in such a spot ; 

To watch great Nature in her various moods. 
And meditate on life and summers gone, 
Recalling loves pure, sacred, unforgot— 

Until the twilight rests upon the woods ; 

Then, sup with friends and dream in Halcyon. 

Queenstown, Canada, August 5, 1905. 




[ 28 ] 



To J. V. W. ANNAN 

On his Ninety-fourth Birthday. 

Honored friend, now ninety-four, 

On this eventful day 
What can we wish you more 

Than the blessings you have had ; 
What new words can we say ? 

You've had friends, and faith and peace, 
The grace to make hearts glad. 

Home love in richest store, — 
Heaven waiting earth's release ; 

What can we wish you more ? 

MATERIAL PROSPERITY 

Written for M. A. 

Beyond the Atlantic's western shore, 
Where tireless force forever drives — 
Till all the ideals of most lives 

Are power and profit evermore ; 

With knowledge vast, unknown before. 
Science sees far and commerce thrives. 
Powers combine; — while fashion strives. 

Are these what seers have dreamed of yore ? 

We have the cure for many ills. 
And train all nature to our aid ; 
Small gain if we be unaware 

Of visions seen on Eastern hills, 

Warnings to make the heart afraid ; 
And heavenly voices in the air. 



[ 29 ] 



AT THE GRAVE OF MARY E. LORD 

Queen City of the western lake, 

By Erie's pleasant waters, 
You mourn for her whom death did take — 

The kindliest of your daughters. 

A child of yours, she loved you well, 
She shared your growth and glory ; 

Her name shall in your annals dwell, 
Her life will be your story. 

The joys of nature were her own. 

In country or in city ; 
Of all God's creatures, she found none 

Too low for love and pity. 

Into her hospitable home 

Came many a woodland stranger, 

For there they fearlessly might roam, 
Secure from foe and danger. 

When hearts were cold and law was dead, 

She saw the horse overloaded. 
The wound unhealed, the kine unfed. 

The beast to th' shambles goaded, — 

Her woman's soul, with holy zeal, 
Passed not the wrong unheeded ; 

She taught a city's heart to feel. 
And conquered where she pleaded. 



[ 30 ] 



The true, the tender one is gone, 
The faithful heart is sleeping ; 

Home of our dead, dear Forest Lawn, 
We leave her in your keeping. 

O, women cruel, cold, and hard, 
Lives given to senseless fashion, 

Learn by the grave of Mary Lord 
The Gospel of Compassion. 






[ 31 ] 



ROBERT KEATING 

On his Seventy-fifth Birthday. 

Let friends all rejoice 

To-night, at this meeting ; 
And proclaim with one voice 

Our faith in R. Keating ; - 
He stands for fair play, 

Religion and truth, 
As zealous to-day 

As in years of his youth. 

He does not pitch ball ; 

At golf a poor player ; 
Never saw Donegal : 

For new cults doesn't care ; 
But as a mirth-raiser 

He holds the front rank ; 
And as an appraiser — 

Enquire at the bank. 

The things he don't want 

Are always too dear ; 
Humbugs look askant 

When Robert is near ; 
For the friends he regards, 

His friendship is stable, 
And pilgrims and bards 

Find a seat at his table. 



[ 32 ] 



He has won a good name 

By actions that bless; 
The bauble of fame 

Never caused him distress 
A toast to his birthday, 

We wish him good cheer; 
May Peace and Love stay 

With him, many a year. 




[ 33 ] 



EICHE-RUHE 

To my friend, J. U. W., Pasadena, Cal. 

Glad summer days in the shade of the oak, 

By the dearest of homes and friendships true 
To-night from the past I old pictures evoke, 
When thinking of you. 

In those golden days when cherries were red, 
And in bloom were flowers of many a hue ; 
Their beauty brightened each garden bed, 
When sitting by you. 

Those peaceful hours I shared your hopes — 

Father and mother and darling boys ; 
'Tis well then unread were the horoscopes 
Now marring our joys. 

You found a home by the calm sea coast. 
In a sunshine land with prospects new ; 
Thought followed you still — the past a ghost— 
And away from you. 

A house of peace beyond peaks of snow ; 

Below, the arroyo. How grand the view ! 
There sleep the loved of the long ago ; 
And alone are you. 

Here a garden of beauty we oft recall ; 

There is one as fair you daily see ; 
In the Garden of God transcending all — 
The meeting will be. 



[ 34 ] 



TO A VOYAGER BOUND FOR THE ORIENT 

While the steamship is toiling and rolling, 

As you skirt the African shore, 
The thought that is most consoling 

Is, when your long journey is o'er, 
You are not on the wild waves bowling, 

And will be thankful as never before, 
That you hear the church bells tolling, 

As you sit by your own back door. 

'Twixt the garden grounds and the distance, 

There, trees of rare beauty grow ; 
They gladden your whole existence 

In the seasons of sunshine or snow. 
Let the lonely palm be forgotten, 

And the weary sands you explore, 
Let the garden and flowers be oft thought on. 

That you see from your own back door. 

O ! why did a restless yearning 

Make you sail the salt seas o'er ; 
Now, tired of the billows surging, 

And of people who only bore, — 
Seek a calm that is full of blisses. 

Seek a peace that is ever in store — 
One, that she who wanders misses, 

And 'tis found at your own back door. 



[ 35 ] 



Come back to home and to neighbors, 

To those who love you the best ; 
They will hail you with harps and tabors, 

When you return to the West. 
And the flowers and the birds will greet you. 

And the sunsets that you adore ; 
Dear friends will joyfully meet you 

As you sit by your own back door. 




[ 36 ] 



TO RABBI FALK AND MRS. FALK ON THEIR 
SILVER WEDDING ANNIVERSARY 

The day that made two hearts unite. 

Has had its annual round ; 
And every year brings fresh delight, 

Where love and faith are crowned — 

'Till now at length the march of life, 
Through hopes, griefs, joys, and fears, 

Have brought you, happy man and wife, 
To five and twenty years. 

Your children blossomed by your hearth, 
And peace has blessed your home ; 

While from the distant parts of earth 
To you have friendships come. 

The truths the good and wise have taught 

Have unto you been dear ; 
No promised land afar you sought — 

For you have found it here. 

True hospitality of mind 

Has opened every place ; 
The brotherhood the generous find 

Barred not by creed or race. 

The kindly thought, the hand to reach 
Where hopes and friends are few ; 

The charity all gospels teach. 
Has found a voice in you. 



[ 37 ] 



A GOOD MAN'S BIRTHDAY 

J. D. L. 

He works for others, — 

Happy task ! 
All men his brothers ; 

Do not ask 
His age to-day, 
But only say 
It matters not. 
The good he sought, 
Great things he wrought — 
Results that stay ; 
Love lit his way — 
A blessed lot. 

The love that shone 
Will light him on ; 
Small change for him 
When eyes grow dim 
And birthdays cease ; 
An angel's call 
Will softly fall,— 
Then joy and peace 
Where love is all. 




[ 38 ] 



GLEN IRIS POEMS 




?so 




[ 40 ] 



GLEN IRIS, the home of Hon. William 
Pryor Letchworth, LL. D., is in Wyoming 
County, New York, on the west bank of the 
Genesee River and overlooking the Middle 
Fall. Here, the owner, — when not absent on 
philanthropic work, — has resided for over half 
a century ; from time to time adding to his 
property, improving and beautifying it, until 
landscape art, added to nature's bounty, has 
made it the delight of all lovers of natural 
scenery. 

Within the estate are the Upper, Middle, and 
Lower Falls of the Genesee River, and several 
fine cascades. The river bank and the heights 
are covered with a rare variety of trees, shrubs, 
plants, and flowers, and on the well-tilled farms 
are orchards, wheat fields, meadows, and rich 
pasture land. 

The geologist.botanist, and ornithologist have 
here rich fields in which to make their investi- 
gations. Artists find pictures already made 
for them to copy, and poets inspiration for 
their verse. There is no other place in this 
country, known to me, about which so many 
poems have been written. These, finely illus- 
trated, are printed in an artistic volume, 
" Voices of the Glen." The Indian Council 
House, formerly in Canadea, Allegany County, 
was moved to Glen Iris and here the Last 
Indian Council on the Genesee was held in 
October, 1872. Near by is the grave of Mary 
Jemison, the famous white captive, and her 
log cabin. Other objects of interest are found 
in a well-arranged museum. 

[ 41 ] 



This wonderful estate of one thousand acres 
was deeded by Mr. Letchworth to the State of 
New York, December 31, 1906, to be preserved 
forever as a "Public Park and Reservation." 
Its land and water, the latter "The Soul of the 
Landscape," will be under the protection and 
care of The American Scenic and Historic 
Preservation Society, which insures for posterity 
the careful preservation of this magnificent 
property. 



[ 42 ] 





[ 44 ] 



A MEMORY 

Bright summer dream of white cascade, 

Of lake, and wood, and river, 
The vision from the eye may fade. 
The heart keeps it forever. 

There beauty dwells 

In rarest dells, — 
There every leaf rejoices ; 

By cliff and steep. 

By crag and deep, 
You hear their pleasant voices. 

From forest flower and meadow bloom. 

The soft wind, passing over. 
Brings the wild roses' fresh perfume. 
The sweet breath of the clover; 

And odors rare 

Pulse through the air, 
In waves of pleasure flowing. 

We dream away 

The passing day. 
Regardless of its going. 

On leafy boughs the sunlight glows, 

The skies are blue above us. 
The happy laugh that comes and goes 
Is from the friends who love us. 

O ! bliss combined 

Of sense and mind. 
Rare boon to mortals given. 

Before our eyes 

Is Paradise, 
Above the blue is heaven. 



[ 45 ] 



Take, Memory, to thy choicest shrine. 

And guard as sacred treasure, 
The hours of ecstasy divine. 
The days of untold pleasure. 
Though many a scene 
May come between. 
In way of future duty, 
We still shall deem 
Our summer dream, 
As peerless in its beauty. 




[ 46 ] 




U;S5 




[ 48 ] 



THERE'S A BEAUTIFUL SPOT BY THE WILD 
GENESEE 

There's a beautiful spot by the wild Genesee, 

Where blend the sublime and romantic ; 
O! there is not a scene so lovely, I ween, 

From the Oregon to the Atlantic. 
Come, thou sprite of the deep, where the white waters leap, 

Whose office to aid and inspire is. 
That we picture the green, the shadow and sheen, 

Of the landscape surrounding Glen Iris ; 

Show the fields on the uplands all golden with grain. 

The orchards with fruits overladen ; 
The green forest trees as they sway in the breeze — 

Which is pure as the incense of Eden, — 
And the river below, passing on in its flow. 

Now calm as the sunlight that flushes, 
Now into the verge of the fathomless gorge, 

A silvery torrent, it rushes : 

Here the cliffs' dizzy heights in their fearfulness hang. 

Where the birds in their aeries are dwelling. 
There down the abyss the weird waters hiss. 

Or over the ledges are swelling ; 
And the caverns yawn wide on the precipice side, 

Where never a sunbeam is slanted ; 
O! we gaze upon all, river, landscape, and fall, 

Till the heart and the eye are enchanted. 



[ 49 1 



The spell must be broken; dear valley, farewell. 

Farewell, too, thou wild-flowing river. 
But a life-happy thought of the joys by thee brought. 

Will be a glad presence forever. 
And should the days come, ere journeying home, 

When the heart's wish from care to retire is. 
Heaven send it may be by the dear Genesee, 

And the waters and woods of Glen Iris. 




[ 50 ] 





[ 52 ] 



REST 

Nature rewards a friendly eye — 
Reveals herself to sympathy, 
But coldly meets the passer-by. 

And he who'd win her peerless grace, 
Or scan the fairness of her face. 
Must seek her in her dwelling-place. 

The rifted clouds are snowy-fleeced. 
The gorgeous sun ascends the east — 
A fiery-vestured Orient priest. 

The pine-tops glisten in his glow. 

The brooks are burnished in their flow, 

A brightness rests on all below : 

On leaf-roofed nook and wooded ridge, 
On cataract and lofty bridge, 
Down to the kindly water's edge ; 

Away from selfish, narrow schemes. 
Where cheerful sunshine ever beams, 
In hallowed rest my spirit dreams. 

From human strife and wordy brawls, 
I list to Nature's pleasant calls, 
And drink the joy of waterfalls. 

A halo rests on rock and tree, 
A glory flits across the lea — 
God's work in beauty robed, I see ; 



[ 53 ] 



While upward mounts the smoking spray, 
Soft airs about my temples play, 
And breezes kiss the heat away. 

Beyond the river's graceful leap, 
Where curving segments seek the deep, 
The shining waters downward creep. 

The sky bends o'er us crystal clear. 
No tokened wraith of storm is near, 
And yet God's covenant is here ! 

The earth is full of symphonies — 
Leaf-rustles and the hum of bees, 
And sounds like roar of distant seas. 

Love's curtain shuts the past, so grim ; 
No future cometh dark or dim — 
In present bliss the senses swim. 

Calm's finger resteth on the air. 
Peace dwelleth on the waters there, 
And rest abideth everywhere. 




[ 54 ] 





[ 56 ] 



THE HAPPY VALLEY 

I 
The shady woods of Wyoming are pleasant as of old, 
The distant fields of Livingston are clothed in green and gold, 
The orchard fruit is hanging low on many a burdened tree, 
And through its rock-bound battlements flows down the 

Genesee ; 
While above the roar of waters, and beneath the summer skies, 
In all its peerless beauty there the happy valley lies ! 

H 

White clouds of incense slowly rise above the sparkling fall. 
The lovely Iris o'er it rests — a gorgeous coronal; 
And no sound of weary clamor, of workshop or of forge. 
Breaks the murmur of the wild cascade that flashes down the 

gorge ; 
O, our hearts forget their sorrow, as we feast our eager eyes 
Where below in all its beauty there the happy valley lies. 

Ill 

The calmness of the lotus-land is round us everywhere, 
There's music in the waterfall, there's gladness in the air ; 
We sit beneath the shadows now, and watch the drowsy mill. 
Or hark the wild kingfisher's cry, the crow's caw on the hill ; 
There the beech and stately fir-tree in crowning glory rise, 
And below in peerless beauty still the happy valley lies. 



[ 57 ] 



IV 

O, fairest of all rivers, how often to our thought, 
In the city's heated tumult, hast thou refreshing brought. 
Beyond the storied waters — the Avon and the Rhine — 
While our hearts have leaped exultingly, as thrilled by olden 

wine ; 
Again we view thy age- worn cliffs, rich with the sunset-dyes. 
And still in peerless beauty there the happy valley lies. 



Ye woods and fields, be ever glad in sunshine and in snow, 
Bend o'er the deep in loveliness, thou many-tinted bow ; 
Flow on, fair river, in thy course, and carry joy abroad ; 
Sweet valley, from thy bosom send thanksgivings up to God ; 
Look down in loving-kindness still, ye clear, benignant skies. 
And angels guard the sacred spot where dear Glen Iris lies ! 




[ 58 ] 





[ 60 ] 



A PICTURE 

A peaceful glen shut in by wooded heights ; 

A river rushing through its rock-cut walls ; 
Bright summer days and moon-illumined nights ; 

The sweeping solemn surge of waterfalls. 

Cloud-shadows flitting over distant glades ; 

Trees many-hued, a hundred cool retreats ; 
Brooks flashing downward into white cascades ; 

Light evening zephyrs fresh with forest sweets. 

A tree-encircled lawn above a dell ; 

An orchard slope, rare tufts of fragrant flowers ; 
A happy home where love and duty dwell, 

And joy prevails through all the changing hours 



[ 61 ] 



TO M. F. 

At Glen Iris, October, 1899. 

Above, the stately pines parade, 

The sumachs burn below ; 
The river and the glad cascade 

Make music as they flow. 

Bright colors are on vine and tree, 

With Indian summer haze, 
And happy thoughts come back to me 

Of joyous autumn days, — 

When loving hearts were in the "Glen" 

Old friends forever dear ; 
O ! would that they who met me then. 

Were now with Mary here. 

Ye spirits of this vale of rest — 

The gifted and the true, 
Welcome to-day a stranger guest, 

For she is kin to you. 




[ 62 ] 



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[ 64 ] 



TO GLEN IRIS 

The home at Portage, N. Y., of the Honorable William Pryor Letchworth, 
LL. D., the widely known Author and Philanthropist. 

For all the magic by thy master wrought, 

In working out on thee this bounteous scheme, 
And making thee an artist-poefs dream, — 

For friendship's sweet repose, exalted thought. 

And generous welcome, ever unforgot. 

Thy summer woods, the moonlight on the stream, 
With all the memories that rise supreme, — 

Dear Glen, for these alone I love thee not. 

Thy master's weary years of ceaseless care 
To aid the sick, the hapless one to seek, — 
His voice of mercy pleading for the weak, — 

His word of hope to brighten dark despair, — 

His potent message helpful everywhere, — 

For these I love thee most and these forever speak. 



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[ 65 ] 



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[ 69 ] 



LONGINGS 

I am weary of the summer heat, 

Of looking out on the city street — 

Of the sad, worn looks of the people I meet, 

And I long for the ocean's roar ; 
For the salt sea air and to wander away 
O'er the heathery heights of Sheep Haven Bay, 

And the fields of Cashelmore. 

I long to stand where the sea-birds call. 
By Horn Head's steep and rocky wall. 
And watch the great waves break and fall ; 

For there's life on the hills and life by the sea, 
And voices forever are calling to me 
From the wilds of Donegal ! 



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[ 71 ] 



MEMORIES 

Land of rare beauties, old land of Tyrconnel, 
Through all the years gone fond memories stay ; 

Where once ruled the brave Sweeney, the valiant O'Donnell— 
Dear land of my childhood, I see you to-day. 

Salt waters still lave the shores of Lough Swilly ; 

Tides ebb and flow in great Sheep Haven Bay, 
Green vales, and dark uplands, heathclad and hilly, 

You stand now before me, I see you to-day. 

On the strand of Tramore I've watched the waves speeding 
O'er the bent-sprinkled sand hills did joyously stray; 

Above their deep burrows the rabbits were feeding ; 
Is Tolly hill green in the winter to-day ? 

When north winds were fierce and billows were soaring, 
O'er Horn Head's sharp crags was a wondrous display — 

McSweeney's Gun booming, far heard was its roaring ; 
Now rare is its thunder, low booms it to-day. 

The leas and the daisies, the sweet hawthorn hedges 
With violet and primrose to brighten the way ; 

Some close by the roadside, some up the steep ledges — 
In past years they blossomed, I see them to-day. 

The mist in the morning up Muckish was creeping ; 

The mill on the Cloon partly hid by the spray ; 
Upon the swift mill-wheel white waters were leaping ; 

I watched them with wonder and see them to-day. 



[ 72 ] 



The spry Irish boys and the girls at the dances ; 

The fairs and the frolics, lives blithesome and gay ; 
The weddings and convoys, life's changes and chances 

Old joys and old sorrows are with me to-day ; 

Again by the turf fire I hear the wheels whirring ; 

The spinners' light lilt, or the singers' sweet lay ; 
Thoughts of my neighbors my heart deep are stirring - 

Lost forms and lost faces are with me to-day. 




[ 73 ] 



EXTRACT FROM AN ADDRESS 

Perchance some one may turn his thoughts to-night 
To that dear land where first he saw the light ; 
Again he hears the cuckoo's distant cry, 
The hidden lark's sweet music in the sky, 
In fields of grain the lusty corncrake's calls. 
From hazelwoods the linnet's clear note falls. 
How fair the lea with daisies and each edge 
Rich with fragrance by the hawthorn hedge ; 
Who breathing once their odours can forget 
The primrose, wall-flower, and blue violet, 
Or meadow-sweet, or woodbine rich perfume — 
Bright yellow gorse and heather's purple bloom. 
When hope was high and life with us was young, 
We then heard songs that have not since been sung ; 
For Nature then was prodigal, and we 
Saw on her face what we no more can see. 




[ 74 ] 




[ 76 ] 



GARTAN 

The exile from Tyrconnel land, 
Takes with him over the sea, 
Visions of beauty of ocean and strand, 
Of lough and river and lea ; — 

But none moves his heart with a tenderer thrill 
Than a spot near Gartan glen and the hill 
Where was born the great Saint Columbkille. 

Rugged and grand is the mountain view, 

Green the turf by valley and lake, 
Where the wonderful boy in wisdom grew, 
Then left them for Christ's dear sake ; 
He made of lona a sanctified site, 
He planted the cross on lowland and height, 
And to Gael and Briton gave gospel light. 

Centuries many, since, have gone. 
Yet his name it faileth not ; — 
It is honored in every clime and zone 
Where Christian truth is taught; 

And pilgrims from far are journeying still 
To that sacred spot near lake and hill — 
Where was born the great Saint Columbkille. 



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[ 77 ] 



CREESLOUGH FAIR 

If you have never been to a Creeslough Fair, 
Nor had a look at the doings there, 
In the olden time — Lammas or May — 
You have missed a rousing holiday. 
'Tis a pleasant task once more to recall 
The buying and selling by Hasting's Wall ; 
Where to cheer the heart and banish care, 
Crowds gathered from far to the Creeslough Fair 

They came from Fanad, Glen and Castle Doe ; 
From Cloughaneely and around Myroe ; 
From Ramelton and all along the Lennon, 
Letterkenny, Milford, and Kilmacrenan ; 
On horse, on foot, on loaded cart, 
From Dunfanaghy, Fougher, Derryart ; 
By the side of Muckish, past Crinesmair; — 
They traveled in groups to the Creeslough Fair. 

Sturdy farmers, children from school ; 
Housewives bringing spun lint and wool ; 
Young men and the girls they most did prize. 
With a wealth of hair and dangerous eyes — 
Black, blue, or brown — there was always peril 
In going to a fair with a Donegal girl, 
For full many a match came unaware 
And two hearts made one at a Creeslough Fair. 



[ 78 ] 




[ 79 ] 



There were donkeys, horses, foals and mares, 
Cows, heifers and calves, bullocks in pairs ; 
Sharp drovers, tinkers, and keen farmer boys 
Buying and selling with hand-clap and noise; — 
The seller extolling the best that he could 
The beast that the buyer pronounced no good. 
As he looked in its mouth with a nonchalant air, 
But at last closed the deal at the Creeslough Fair. 

There was the man who auctioned goods down, 
Who began at a guinea and dropped to a crown ; 
Then seeing the buyers to bid were unwilling. 
Let the bargain go at last for a shilling. 
There were hawkers with much that a housewife needs — 
Cutlery, spools, pins, needles, and beads ; 
Some spent all the money they had to spare, 
Buying odds and ends at the Creeslough Fair. 

Others, whose minds did on booklore dwell, 

Could find in the stalls what suited them well ; 

Seven Champions, ShiePs Shamrock, volumes of song. 

Grim tales of murder, old fights that went wrong ; 

While the ballad singers would solemn relate 

A shipwreck at sea, or a false lover's fate, 

Erin's past, her hope and her despair — 

And the songs reached the hills from the Creeslough Fair. 



[ 81 ] 



When the buying and selling were over and done, 
The time then arrived for the frolic and fun ; 
In the inns for refreshment luck-money was paid, 
Old friendships renewed and new ones were made ; 
Near the jugglers were sparrers entering the lists, 
Harlequins, puppets, and ventriloquists ; 
Irish pipers a-playing, trained dogs, dancing bears. 
And proud, peerless "peelers" parading the fairs. 

Dear homes where the patient toilers be. 
Where is heard the ceaseless voice of the sea ; 
Your fields are stony, minds oft distressed. 
But with love in the heart there is peace and rest ; 
Your sons and daughters new lives have planned 
Away in a kind and generous land ; — 
Yet ofttimes they long for the mountain air, 
Old joys, and a day at the Creeslough Fair. 




[ 82 ] 





[ 84 ] 



THE SAND EEL STRAND 

The tide is low in Sheep Haven Bay, 
And the harvest moon high stands, 

As a joyful company hastens away 
To cross to the sand eel strands. 

They pass o'er the gullet in curragh and yawl — 

The tide is nearing its flow ; 
Into creel and basket the shining fish fall, 

And the bar is roaring below ! 

The raven croaks on the garden wall ; 

There's a rush of the inflowing tide ; 
The boats are all gone, unheard is the call, 

And the channel grows deep and wide. 

Lustily back the oarsmen pull — 

Hope shouts from the shadowy land. 

Too late ! for only the cry of the gull 
Is heard o'er the sand eel strand. 

Hopeless of aid from the distant shore. 

They plunge in the waters deep ; 
The moan of the surf and the bar's deep roar 

Are their dirge as they fall asleep. 

When the sun next shines on meadow and corn. 
And the weepers kneel down to pray — 

Across the wrack the dead are borne 
To the shore of Sheep Haven Bay. 



[ 85 ] 



FAME 

"I have written my name on water." 

There's a murky pool hid from the strand 

By banks where the daisies grow ; 
But near it the currachs never land, 

Nor by it the fishermen go ; — 
For there in a time that is far away, 

A suicide's body was found, 
And all who pass it whispering say, 

" In that water a man was drowned." 

The heather blooms on the hills about ; 

Beyond are the hazel woods ; 
The tide comes in and the tide goes out 

And makes glad the solitudes. 
Within there are rocks and marshy grass 

That border the water around ; 
But a shudder is felt by all who pass — 

For there a man was drowned. 

In it forlorn and shrunken shrimps 

Move languidly to and fro ; 
They look like a troop of imprisoned imps 

In the bog-stained water below ; — 
The children passing along to school, 

Start up with a sudden bound. 
As they turn and see the accursed pool, 

In which a man was drowned. 



[ 86 ] 



Was it the act of a frenzied brain 

Grown weary of life's stern task ? 
No answer comes to the query again, 

And in vain the questioners ask ; 
Others kept a faith that brightened the hearth, 

And were strong though fortune frowned — 
Their names are forgotten on the earth, 

While lives his name who was drowned. 

His story is known to all who live near, 

For his act recorded his name ; 
He sought for death in madness and fear, 

And his life was ended in shame ; — 
Forgotten his friends by hillside and shore. 

They have speedy oblivion found ; 
While his name is recorded forevermore. 

On the water where he was drowned. 




[ 87 ] 




[ 88 ] 




[ 90 ] 



THE WRECK OF THE FRIGATE SALDANA 

In Ballyraastocker Bay, Lough Swilly, December 4, 1811. 

Tempest tossed and ever thwarted ; 

Sails torn asunder, cordage parted ; 

Great guns broken from their lashings ; 

Split spars falling, constant crashings ; 

Terror stalking, bells a-tolling ; 

North and west great billows rolling ; — 

All around a whirl of waters 

Bow and deck and broadside batters ; 

From Malin Head to treacherous Torry, 

Leeward rocks and prospects sorry ; 

Packenham from these scenes terrific, 

Vainly sought a port pacific ; 

In the wild tempestuous weather 

Down went ship and crew together — 

On the sharp rocks, sunken, battered, 

Three hundred seamen drowned and scattered. 

When the wind and tide had shifted. 

Only the captain shoreward drifted ; — 

He of all the men ill-fated. 

Found a graveyard consecrated : 

Near cornfields, meads, and prospects hilly ; 

By the passing tides of the shadowy Swilly, 

In fair Rathmullen beyond Buncrana, 

Rests Packenham of the Saldana. 



[ 91 



ROBERT BERMINGHAM CLEMENTS 

Fourth Earl of Leitrim. 

By his people beloved, as all records show, 

He lightened their burdens, he lessened their woe ; 

His fame resounds beyond Fanad and Doe. 

He passed through the land guarded from peril — 
For man and woman and boy and girl 
Honored and loved the generous earl. 

He brought traffic and gain to the farmer's door ; 
He brightened the lot of the suffering poor ; 
His name will last while the hills endure. 

The works he wrought and the deeds by him done 
Will be prized while the tides of Mulroy run. 
Or great Sheep Haven Bay reflects the sun. 

Too soon removed in his manhood's pride, 
There was sorrow o'er all the country side. 
And a solemn lament when the kind earl died. 

As they bore him away to his burial place, 
The sadness that spake on each mourner's face 
Showed love can bring union of faith and race. 

When wayfarers tarry at Carrigart 

By his cross — a prayer, or a tear will start 

For the earl who had a true Irish heart. 



[ 92 1 




Photo by John Henderson, Esq. 




[ 94 ] 



A BOY'S FISHING 

It was lonesome to be fishing out on the Benagormes, 

And with no fish a-biting there to stay — 
Watching the changing clouds take on such dreadful forms 

On the ever-restless surface of the bay. 

And see the fish a-flashing in the clear sea below — 
Yellow, red and blue, but never a hook took they ; 

While a seal sat before him, a-coming with the flow — 
Her looks so like a woman's, he wished she'd swim away. 

The Seeans were not feeding, there were signs of coming 
storms, 

The hunger-pain within him, and the evening growing gray, 
And it being a wild and lonesome spot out by the Benagormes, 

He thought it wise to hurry off, and fish some other day. 



LITTLE NORA 

Written for Mrs. G. B. M. 

I would like to go to the bullberry brae, 
Where the biggest bullberries be ; 

But I fear there is danger on the way. 
And harm might come to me. 

I'll take three drinks from the holy spring 

And then I can wander free ; 
May dance and sing in the fairy ring 

And around the wild rowan tree. 

I will string with berries cu^hags ten, 
And if sheegies I happen to see — 

One I will give to the Little Men 
And they will be good to me. 



[ 95 ] 



SHAN 

Where a cabin once was found, 

Long since razed to the ground, — 

Lived with Giley brave old Shan, 

Who was a fine old Irishman, — 

Was a kindly friend and neighbor, 

Patient, faithful at his labor ; — 

Plowed and planted, sowed the seed, 

Tilled his garden free of weed ; 

Led the swaying scythe-men on, 

As mowers moved in echelon ; 

And often when his toil was o'er 

In summer, by his cabin door. 

While tarried the soft evening light, 

Or by the blaze on winter's night, 

Like some old bard of ancient fame. 

Would through the smoke in Erse declaim 

A legend, ballad, stirring story, 

Of Irish deeds and old-time glory. 

Then turning to the hearers nigh, 

As one awaked, in English cry, 

" Ireland's deliverance is nigh." 

I see him now with outstretched hand. 

While wondering neighbors listening stand. 




[ 96 ] 




[ 98 ] 



TO HON. WILLIAM PRYOR LETCHWORTH, LL. D. 

— The well-known Philanthropist and Author — On presenting him with a pot of 
heather, by M. J. and J. N. J., on April seventeenth, 1907. 

Dim the year and far away, 
When you rode that matchless day 

In the summer weather — 
Saw the shadows flit and play 
Far o'er wide Sheep Haven Bay, 

And sunshine on the heather. 

* Your mercy-mission we recall, 
And journey through lone Donegal, 

Past Cashel — upper, nether ; 
A whispering air, a sense of awe, 
A mystery in all you saw, 

And fairies in the heather. 

Three mountain summits to the west, 
An ocean north of drear unrest ; 

Here fancy feels no tether — 
It speeds beyond to realms unseen, 
Passing o'er fields of emerald green, 

And tracts of blooming heather. 

The hazy hills, the moorland streams 
Appeared as in a land of dreams ; 

And birds of varied feather ; 
Legends came back, old Celtic lays. 
Myths, mighty deeds of bygone days. 

And sunshine on the heather ! 

* Note. — Mr. Letchworth in 1880 was in Ireland making an official inspection of 
institutions. 



[ 99 ] 



The fleeting seasons will not stay ; 
Life grows wearisome and gray ; 

Great hearts have worked together - 
The glory of their speech and pen 
Has brightened lives of suffering men 

As sunshine lights the heather. 






[ 100 ] 




From a painting by George Winter Roberts, Alden, N. Y. 




[ 102 ] 



THE CAOINE* 

The fishing smacks at Downing's lay, 
The sea and the air were still ; 

Sunshine and joy and the warmth of May 
By the side of Granua's Hill. 

The lark sang near the cornfield's edge, 
The finch on the hawthorn's crest ; 

Wild flowers were blooming by the hedge, 
And an Irish sky at rest. 

Calm and peace o'er wood and lea. 

Save a distant cuckoo's call ; 
O, years of bliss ! it was good to be, 

Such a morning in Donegal — 

To feel the pulse of life beat high, 

And breathe earth's fragrant breath; — 

With love and youth and hope so nigh, 
Afar were sorrow and death. 

From the vale below, by mound and cross, 

Arose a funeral wail — 
The piercing cry of love and loss 

From the stricken heart of the Gael. 

Then all the sunshine and beauty fled, 
And left were the anguish and thrill 

That came with that wailing for the dead, 
As it passed o'er Granua's Hill. 

* The Keen, now rarely heard, is passing away. 



[ 103 ] 



THOUGHTS ON HEARING OF THE DEATH 
OF THE LAST STEWART OF ARDS 

O, Cashelmore ! O, Cashelmore ! 

Old home so far away ! 
To-night I hear the bar's deep roar 

In weird Sheep Haven Bay ! 
Here, where Niagara's waters flow, 

Near Erie's ice-fringed shore — 
While ring the bells of Buffalo, 

I think of Cashelmore. 

Its early flowers I eager sought 

And heather-purpled hill — 
They're pictured ever in my thought — 

Its birds are singing still ! 
Dear sharers of my boyish hopes, — - 

The living now are few — 
Upon the breezy upland slopes 

Joyous I walked with you. 

I've watched the high tide ebb and flow 

Past rampart banks of green ; 
The fields from Cloon to Castle Doe 

And rampart lands between. 
Through woods of Ards when skies were bright 

I've passed from strand to strand, 
Found at each turn a new delight — 

'Twas an enchanted land. 



[ 104 ] 




[ 105 ] 




HERE, WHERE NIAGARA'S "WATERS FLOW' 



[ 107 ] 



The peasant long since left his cot ; 

The tiller, forced to roam, 
In many climes a future sought 

Denied to him at home. 
Gone, too, the great historic race, 

Its work of beauty done ; 
Its fair demesne a lonely place, 

O'er which the conies run. 

And Nature keeps a changeless face, 

Whate'er the human lot ; 
Men come and go, they leave no trace. 

And yet she heedeth not ; 
The western line still Muckish guards. 

Seas break on grim Horn Head ; 
Silence and change have come to Ards, 

And its last Stewart dead ! 



Buffalo, New York, U. i 
February 2, 1905. 




[ 109 ] 



THE BRIDGE OF CLOON 

I 
A boy in the splendor of June 
Stood on the Bridge of Cloon ; 

He watched the trout in the pool, 
The children passing to school ; 

The patient husbandmen go 
With grist to the mill below ; 

Returning, by horse or with wheel. 
Each bringing his burden of meal. 

The river swept downward in glee, 
To meet the incoming sea ; 

Beyond, rose the woods and green swards 
And the opulent beauty of Ards ; 

The thrilling song of a thrush 
Came from a neighboring bush ; 

Meadow and tree and flower 
Rejoiced in that sun-lit hour ; 

Earth and heaven brought joy 
To the sensitive heart of the boy, 

As he stood, in that far-off June, 
And dreamed on the Bridge of Cloon. 

H 

By the light of a winter moon 
He stands on the Bridge of Cloon ; 



[ 110 ] 





[ 111 ] 



Years of absence and change 
To him make all things strange ; 

Can this be the river he knew, 
The mill and the old-time view ? 

No more the great wheel groans, 
No sound of the circling stones ; 

Mill roofless — all ruin and rust. 
The faithful miller now dust 

In the chapel yard with the dead, 
And a faded cross at his head ! 

Patrons at rest — father and son, 
Sowing, reaping, and grinding done, 

And of all the numberless host 
Not even a flitting ghost ! 

While out from the spectral sky 
Comes a wild bird's desolate cry. 

Dark shadows on mountain and lea 
And the wail of a distant sea — 

And under the pitiless moon 

He, alone, on the Bridge of Cloon ! 



[ 113 ] 



THE WOODS OF ARDS 

Neighbors and friends on the soft, green heather, 

By the ruins of Cashel sitting together ; — 

Singing old songs, telling old stories ; 

Watching by Muckish the sunset glories ; 

The bay and the restless sea in the distance. 
And the woods of Ards with a fond insistence 
Reaching them there with a loving persistence. 

By rivers, lakes, and western prairies, 

Far from Irish hills and haunts of the fairies ; 

Oft lonely and sad as darkness was falling ; 

The ruins of Cashel and friends recalling ; — 

Then the fair woods of Ards made glad my existence, 
They followed me still with their loving persistence, 
And brought me old joys when alone in the distance. 



tFm(K5 




[ 114 1 




[ 115 ] 




[ 117 ] 



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